Along with Hanson’s return to civilization came their inevitable return to “The Tonight Show.” We think it might have been the result of Hanson’s personal chummyness with Jay. (You don’t see Dave and Conan clamoring, now do you?) But whatever the reason, Hanson’s on TV, and that, in the grand scheme, is good. Some thoughts:

Oh Taylor. Prattling on about his prettiness seems woefully redundant, but we’ll allow this one comment: The most fascinating part of his body, the single thing, in our humble opinion, that truly nudges Taylor’s beauty over some sort of worldly edge, is that blasted mole under his lip. Fie on the airbrush-wielding photo editors at the national rags who mistook it for some pithy imperfection. As if we needed a reason to stare at the graceful curves of that sibilant little mouth, but the mole draws your attention there in distracting, dangerous ways. Sad that all our bodies aren’t punctuated so nicely. Pray it never becomes cancerous.

Oh, right. The music.

Is it possible that Taylor’s voice is getting better? Despite the miraculous improbability, his foggy adolescent supertenor seems to be evolving into something even more mighty. The Voice, the hallmark that separates Hanson from other moody, melody-filled units in the post-Nirvana sludgeheap, sounds suddenly brighter, more potent, more sharply emotional. Have another child, Taylor. Have ten. Unfortunately, along with his ever-expanding vocal prowess seems to have come a serious degeneration in the boy’s diction. He was bad to begin with, but this performance may have set a new record for Taylor Hanson incomprehension. Four minutes into the song, the only fragment we caught that resembled English was "roll the windows down." Maybe the dodgy lyrical complexity in "Penny and Me" is to blame. Maybe, as we’ve always secretly suspected, Taylor Hanson has major spit-control issues. But good luck to you figuring out those lyrics without the fan-generated cheat sheets that sprung up on the internet roughly twelve seconds after Hanson left the "Tonight Show" stage.

As for the guitar, we’re not sure what to think. He seems to be able to play it properly enough, which is a relief. We still long, however, for Taylor Hanson's hands on a piano—not a tinkling Casio, mind you, but the real non-micable wood kind. Something about it seems to suit him better than a boring old guitar. Pianos aren’t instruments. They’re furniture—exceedingly beautiful even at rest, and deeply, deeply high-maintenance. ("Just like me," quoth Rufus Wainwright.) Now doesn’t that sound more Taylor to you than an instrument that fits in the coach-class carry-on compartment of a 737?

Also at issue is Taylor’s curious Guitar Stance. Ike looks coolly natural with his. It’s a part of his body. Taylor looks like he’s handling something awkward and foreign that doesn’t quite make sense to him yet. Like a baby elephant.

Ike tries too hard. His new look, for example, is so strenuous, you can almost picture the sweat beading on his brow as he knots that skinny black tie each morning. So why the hell do we love it so much? Its terminal wrongness, from the gunk-filled tips of his unfortunately-christened fauxhawk to the toes of his dusty Chucks, is so deeply felt by the eldest Mr. Hanson, its hard not to nod in approval. At some point during the last three years, while Hanson was hanging out in their basement waiting around for their bitch record company, smoking pot and writing ten trillion songs, a lightbulb must have switched on for Ike. Why hide under the bushel that is khakis and a polo shirt when you’ve sold four million albums and had a number one single? Look at Taylor, after all. Beauty and success are nonspecific, and nonexclusive, so go claim your piece of it, silly boy. The Ike look is so uncool that it is instantly, hysterically cool. It is the story of Ike Hanson’s life, the life of his band, his music, his fans, his sleepy midwestern hometown, his zealot-y Christian upbringing, and his public image. Everything about Hanson is, and has always been, so rife with barely-articulated irony. Ike has finally claimed a piece of it for himself. We only hope he gets the joke.

It’s coming. Mind out of the gutter, young lady.